As to technical specifications, trust but verify.

 

There’s a reason why most scientific breakthroughs and spectacular fatal accidents are accomplished by people under 30. It’s because young people just don’t know enough not to take crazy risks.

When I was about 27 I decided the first house I’d build myself would be a converted 18th Century barn. I’d just buy the barn, disassemble it, haul it about 50 miles, re-erect it on a new poured foundation and build a house into the space, without cutting a beam or in any way changing the original structure. Simple.

To guarantee the enterprise would be adequately challenging, I held down a desk job during the day and worked on the barn at night and on weekends. The day shift was managed by a local carpenter whose skills decidedly favored the practical over the diplomatic.

I was sitting at my desk one day when he called. At this point the barn was up on the new site and closed in. We were just starting to frame out the interior walls and were noodling out plumbing, electrical and HVAC. I’d done the architecture myself and negotiated around some hairy non-conformance issues, partly facilitated by a load study obtained from a civil engineer. One of the things he’d laid out was the floor deck and lally column pattern, assuring me that the weight of the barn was adequately distributed.

“You better get down here,” said the carpenter, with a touch of urgency, “your house is falling into the basement.”

These are the times you need to recall what JFK said about grace under pressure. Or how Hemingway would want you to face down a charging lion or a bull on the streets of Pamplona. Instead I waited for my throat to unconstrict so I could croak out,

“Let’s get a little more specific. Has fallen, is in the process of falling, or will fall any minute?”

“Well, it hasn’t fallen yet, but it’s gonna.”

Deep breath.

“Okay,” I said, “that’s a plus. I’m assuming there’s something we can do.”

“Well, I don’t know. One of them lally columns is deflecting ‘bout two inches. Those things don’t deflect. It’s gonna pop. I hauled butt out of there fast as I could.”

As he described the situation I tried to picture the lally column layout in my head.“Is it deflecting toward or away from the foundation for the center fireplace?”

“I don’t remember. Want me to look?”

“I thought it was too dangerous.”

“Got time to look.”

“Sure, what the heck.”

While he was gone I tried not to visualize massive 18th Century chestnut timbers crashing down through the fresh floor deck. Then I wondered if the bents would act as trusses and resist downward stress, even with a buckled lally underneath. Then I told myself the lally was buckling for a reason. Then I wondered if my wife had sent in the insurance premium.

“It’s deflecting toward the fireplace foundation,” said the carpenter, coming back on the line.

Hope sprang in my heart.

“Okay. There’s a stack of spare beams in the back. Get a 6” x 6”, cut it to fit and jam it between the lally and the foundation. Then go get a bunch of jack columns and stick ‘em every place you can think of.”

“What if it doesn’t hold?”

I wanted to say, “Then I have lost thousands of dollars, indebted myself for the rest of my life, ruined any chance of building anything ever again and become the laughing stock of every architect and tradesman in New England.”

Instead I said, “It’ll hold.”It did and I finished the house, which was sold a few years later. Visual inspection from the street indicates it still stands.

I’m a lot older now, but I haven’t stopped taking risks. The houses I’ve designed and built since then, however, are all built out of purely modern materials.And I’ve done my best to stay clear of civil engineers.